


With All the Trimmings

by mokuyoubi



Series: Sarlat-la-Canéda [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, Fluff, M/M, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt for Christmas tree decorating fluff. Will expresses an interest in having a Christmas tree. Hannibal goes a little overboard. Pure Christmasy fluffiness, don't expect much else from this...</p>
            </blockquote>





	With All the Trimmings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KareliaSweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/gifts), [Whreflections](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/gifts).



> For my dears, [Whreflections](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections), [KareliaSweet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/works), and [triad-anon](http://triad-anon.tumblr.com/) for their lovely and delightful tumblr prompts that made this a reality :D I hope all your holiday dreams come true <3

It’s a still, peaceful sort of winter evening when they go out. Cold and cloudy with a hint of humidity. The snow is crisp and packed tight underfoot, and there will likely be more before morning, but the lack of wind makes it quite tolerable. They take Will’s SUV to dinner, Hannibal’s Mercedes relegated to the garage for the season, and drive down into the valley. 

Until they arrive in town, Will has all but forgotten about Christmas. As absurd a notion as it may seem, without the ever present, over-commercialisation he’s grown accustomed to in America, it’s easy to forget. Here, in the heart of town, the decorations are tasteful and understated, simple white lights lining the eaves of the shops, wreaths on the doors, twinkling blue lights in the trees..

“It might be nice to have a tree,” he says. Hannibal hums in vague agreement, and that’s all the more Will thinks about it until the following morning.

Hannibal’s side of the bed is still warm when Will wakes, and he realises it was the sound of the car door that stirred him when he hears the engine come to life. It’s not yet light outside, which is enough of a confirmation for Will that it’s way too fucking early to consider getting up. Alice, their shih tzu terrier, stirs from the foot of the bed, lazily climbs up to occupy the space Hannibal has left, and they both fall back asleep.

When he wakes the second time, it’s to the sound of something being knocked to the floor, metal clanking, and Hannibal cursing in French. The only real downside to their cabin is the way noises carry from the den into the loft. Will grumbles and considers pulling the covers over his head. At least there’s sunlight streaming through the seams in the curtain. A glance at the clock tells him it’s half-past seven.

Will sits up and kicks off the covers and Alice’s ears perk up in interest. He shoves his feet in his slippers and tucks her under his arm as he stands. “Let’s go see what Daddy’s up to,” he mutters, plodding heavily down the steps. He stops at the landing, staring as Hannibal wrestles with a giant fir tree.

“What--?” Will just watches in confusion for a moment, before putting Alice down. He hurries to Hannibal’s side and helps support the weight of the tree as Hannibal slides it into the stand. While Alice scampers back and forth, snapping at the lowest hanging branches, Will holds the truck steady and Hannibal tightens the screws. They both take a few steps back to admire their work.

Will cranes his neck back to take it in its entirety. It has to be at least eleven feet tall; the very tip of the tree reaches the bannister of the loft. They could leave the lights on at night and a warm glow would fill their room from below. He reaches out, brushing his hand across the needles--long, springy, and surprisingly soft.

“We never had a tree when I was a kid,” he says, and knows Hannibal probably already assumed as much. “Even with Molly, we had this artificial one. It came with pre-wired with fiber optic lights.” He shrugs, trying to dislodge the unwelcome lump in his throat. “I always thought it would be nice to have a real tree, but it seemed sort of wasteful, when we already had the fake one.”

There are many reasons Will is in love with Hannibal, chief among them how well they know one another. How he now allows Will his moment’s reverie without commentary. Instead, he steps up alongside Will, drawing the long needles across the palm of his hand. 

“This particular fir is only found in a small area of Northwestern America. A local nursery grows them and makes a limited amount available for sale each year. The needles can vary in colour from vibrant blue green to pale powdery blue, and the aroma of the resin is among the strongest and most pleasant of the Pinaceae family.” 

Hannibal illustrates the point, rolling the branch between his fingers and bringing his hand under Will’s nose. The scent is warm, smokey amber, with a hint of spice and cinnamon sweetness, and strong enough that it’s beginning to fill the cabin.

Alice, having finished her initial examination of the tree, weaves her way between their leg legs and comes to sit right between their feet, paw raised. Hannibal bends to pick her up. “I’ll see to Alice, you should get dressed.”

“Dressed?” Will echoes. It’s Saturday, and they have no plans, as far as he can recall.

Hannibal is already halfway out the door. “You’ll want to bundle up,” he calls over his shoulder. “The temperature dropped quite substantially overnight.”

*

There are several year round organic markets to be found in and around Sarlat-la-Canéda. In the little over a year they’ve been living here, Will has learned when and where to find them. 

They can easily spend the entire day skipping from one market to the next. Shopping for fresh produce in the morning, afternoons at the city centre sampling the local cheeses, fresh fruits, and walnuts with wines. Evenings at the night market with fruit infused liquor and live music. 

Breakfast first, at the Place de la Liberté. They share a skillet of poached eggs and duck confit over Sarladaise potatoes, huddled by the patio heater. Hannibal makes his usual rounds of the stands. He fills their basket with lemons and oranges, cider from the orchard to the south, a chunk of ginger root. 

During the winter, the choices are more limited, but the trade-off is one Hannibal is more than willing to make for the abundance of truffles. He spends a truly obscene amount of time at the stand, touching and smelling, and rambling on in French with the vendors. Will understands enough to follow along, but he’d rather peruse the rest of the market.

Will picks up some lamb on sale, and manages to grab a pint of pig’s blood before the butcher throws it out. Hannibal is always happy to have fresh on hand to experiment with. He usually skips over the fishmonger, but the bright red shells of the crawfish catch his eye, and he goes over to inspect them.

“It’s really early,” Will comments.

“Warm winter,” the man explains. Will suppresses the urge to snort. It’s absolutely frigid out--even in two layers of socks his toes have gone numb in his boots.“I haven’t seen such an early crayfish season since 07.”

Hannibal catches up with him as Will is making his purchase. “There was this dish our landlady used to make, on Christmas Eve,” Will explains. “I’d have to look up the recipe. I--I mean, if we’re going to actually do this Christmas thing…”

“Would it please you?” Hannibal asks.

Will is thankful for the cold--his cheeks are already bright pink, the blush won’t be noticeable. It feels a little foolish, a grown man excited over the holiday. Trust Hannibal to read his thoughts. He shifts his basket to one hand, and laces their fingers together. “I’d like to think that you can express your desires to me without fear of embarrassment, by now.”

The words spark heat under Will’s skin and his fingers tighten automatically around Hannibal’s. His body’s reaction isn’t surprising, given the exact nature of the desires he usually expresses. He ducks his chin, a smile teasing at his lips.

“I’ve never--it wasn’t--” Will stops and heaves a sigh, trying to make the jumbled mess in his head into something coherent. Hannibal is silent and patient at his side. “I’ve always borrowed someone else’s Christmas. Our landlady’s, the handful of friends who invited me over in high school and college. Molly and Walter’s.”

“Now you have an opportunity to create your own,” Hannibal finishes.

“ _We_ have an opportunity,” Will says, leaning into his side. “And, yeah. I like that idea.”

Hannibal shares his grin. “As do I,” he says. “In that case, think you’ll approve of our next stop.”

A Christmas village has been set up at the Place de la Grande Rigaudie. A few dozen wooden chalets make up the market, selling arts, crafts, and baked goods. In the centre of the village, children and adults alike trace their way across the ice skating rink and while a local band plays Christmas standards.

They visit the tavern--mulled wine for Hannibal, Christmas beer for Will, and make the rounds. They agree on the strings of warm, golden white lights, the bulbs round and dainty, and every fifth light painted red. Will grabs a package of shimmering gold tinsel just to tease him, but though his face draws tight with distaste, Hannibal says nothing.

The only real disagreement comes when Hannibal selects an angel for the tree top. Hannibal’s brow furrows in confusion. “The craftsmanship is truly exquisite,” he says. “The intricate carvings and attention to detail with the painting--even the stitching on the gown--”

“Yes, Hannibal,” Will says. “Exquisite stitching, got it. We’re still not putting an angel on top of the tree.”

“It is traditional,” Hannibal counters.

“So is a star.” Will hands him the aged mirrored glass star with silver filigree detailing.

Hannibal arches a brow. There is a faint, indulgent spark in his eyes. “There are religious connotations behind both symbols and their place in the Nativity. The Star of Bethlehem and the archangel Gabriel.”

“A star doesn’t have to be religious if we don’t want it to be.”

“There was a stuffed cephalopod a few stalls back, if you would prefer something more secular,” Hannibal offers. He’s no longer even attempting to hide his amusement. “Perhaps a rack of antlers?”

Will rolls his eyes, takes the angel from Hannibal’s hand, and puts it back on the shelf. “You bought an eleven foot tall tree,” he says, exasperated. “I’m not having an angel watching while we’re sleeping and fucking. It’s weird, and creepy.”

“You hardly seemed to mind the potential for an audience in the cloak room the other evening,” Hannibal murmured, leaning in close until his lips brushed Will’s ear as he spoke. Will elbows him away, but doesn’t try to deny it.

They end up buying a large, artfully tied ribbon in red and gold, decorated with fake holly plants. After visiting the rest of the stalls, they have a fair selection of ornaments and hanging figurines to decorate the tree. 

While Hannibal is distracted making a purchase of craft straw of all things, Will sneaks back to one of the other vendors. Hannibal will be delighted by the intricately patterned, hand fashioned galette iron, and if Will himself will enjoy the fruits of his labours, all the better.

The sun has set by the time they’re finished shopping, and they head to the market at Place Boissarie for dinner--seared foie gras with fig chutney, over grilled pears and greens, raviolis filled with walnuts, goat’s cheese, and cepe mushroom. 

At home, Alice climbs over all the bags, sniffing curiously, and zeroes on her treat. Will pulls out the handmade dog cookie they brought for her. She takes it daintily from his hand and goes to curl up in her bed by the fire, gnawing at it. Will goes through their records and puts on one of the few holiday albums they have, and the strains of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet fills the cabin. 

Hannibal juices the oranges and lemons, pours them together with the cider on the stove, and seasons the wassail with cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon. While it simmers, spreading the tart, spicy fragrance, Hannibal shows his reason for the craft straw. Will watches over his shoulder as Hannibal wets the straw and irons it flat, then folds it into a snowflake pattern.

“It felt appropriate, if you plan on including part of your heritage, that I should include some of my own,” he says. “These days, Lithuanian folk artists often use plastic drinking straws to make the staudinukai, and they are quite impressively done. Traditionally, however, they were made of bleached straw. In my youth, my mother and I would gather it ourselves, always looking for the long, hollow pieces.”

It’s rare for Hannibal to discuss his youth, and Will can’t help but study his face for any indication of discomfort or sadness. There’s only a mild, pleasant emotion that borders on fondness. Hannibal didn’t love his parents, not in the way he loved Mischa and loves Will, not even with the gentle affection he held for Abigail, nor the interest and appreciation he had for Alana and Bedelia, but it is a positive memory, regardless.

Will slides into the seat next to him, knocking their knees together and grabs his own strand of straw. Long and hollow like Hannibal said. His first one breaks, and by the time he’s finished his second--a lopsided star--Hannibal has a whole row of them, folded in a variety of ever-more intricate patterns. Yet somehow there isn’t even a trace of scorn when he runs a bit of red ribbon through Will’s ornament to hang it from the tree.

Hannibal strains the wassail and pours them each a mug while they decorate the tree. Will starts topping them off with amaretto every time either one of them takes a sip. By the time they’ve finished trimming the tree, Will has crossed the line from buzzed to well and truly drunk. When they’ve finished, they sit on the floor in front of the fireplace, backs propped up against the sofa, lazily making out.

Everything is bright and fuzzy around the edges, and all Will’s limbs are pleasantly. From the speakers, Ella and Bing are singing sultry innuendo. Hannibal, who never drinks to excess, is far worse off, clingy and grinning in an endearingly dopey way that makes it difficult for Will to stop kissing him. 

Alice hops into Will’s lap and croons along with the music, and Will breaks their kiss with a laugh when she licks his chin. Hannibal nuzzles down his jaw and into the curve of his neck he where rests, making sleepy noises. Will lays his cheek to Hannibal’s hair and lets out a resigned sigh at the sight of their Christmas tree. 

“Our tree is kind of ugly,” he says mournfully.

“I think it’s beautiful,” Hannibal muses.

Will is mostly convinced he doesn’t even have his eyes open anymore. He ducks his head to confirm it and then looks back at the tree. Hannibal chose at least a dozen dog figurines of different breeds “until you have a pack again,” and they look ridiculous alongside the etched glass bulbs Hannibal selected for himself, the blow glass hand-painted figurines--birds, fruits, fish, and brightly coloured, fanciful abstract patterns. Will’s poorly made staudinukai next to Hannibal’s skilfully done one. The dainty, elegant lights and bow topper clash with Will’s gaudy tinsel, hanging like some parasitic growth.

It’s a hot mess. 

And maybe a little beautiful.

“Come on, lightweight,” Will says, climbing to his feet. He levers Hannibal to his feet with a grunt and gives him a shove towards the bathroom. “Go on, go brush your teeth and pour yourself into bed. I’ll be up after I let Alice out.” 

Hannibal grumbles and pulls Will close in a tight, clumsy hold. The messy kiss Hannibal steals nonetheless sends a thrill down Will’s gut. He’s been hard for the past half-hour and gives in to the urge to grind them together in a slow roll of his hips. He gropes a hand between them and gives Hannibal’s dick a gentle, promising squeeze through his pants. “Bed. Go. Be there in a minute.”

Alice takes a fucking age and half to find the perfect place to take a piss, then another age to find a place to shit, and Will is frozen through, teeth chattering, by the time they make it back inside. The lights are off, save the tree and the dying fire. Will stares with a fond bemusement. All he said was that it'd be nice to have a Christmas tree, but he'll go with it.

*

They go out together to pick their tree every year, but Will has never seen the need to change the type. It took little time for the scent to become familiar, to mean comfort and happiness with just one whiff. Over the years, the collection of ornaments grows as they travel. It becomes a tradition of their own to each find one in every city they visit. 

There are also ornaments culled from the tree. Another tradition is to remove a dog ornament when Will adds a live one of that breed is to their home. Malice, the stray cat Hannibal rescues from the backyard in the middle of their third winter tries to scale the tree to escape Artemis, their braque francais, knocking it over and breaking a handful of the ornaments in the process. And Tessa, the cocker spaniel, has the strangest habit of chewing on glass, which necessitates not only the purchase of new lights, but means they can’t decorate the lowest of the branches from then on out.

The tree is homey but lovely, and Will can’t help but remember the trees he’d seen at Hannibal’s home and office, when they’d lived in Baltimore. Those perfectly styled and decorated artificial trees. Ornaments that were all probably one of a kind, placed just so to create the impression of an artful random, yet pleasingly symmetric arrangement.

The one in his home all crystal and gold, delicate star-spangled garland, and topped with an angel with perfect curls, resplendent in gold and white. The one in his office a sparkly tree the colour of blue iris, decorated in ornaments only in the shade of mimosa. Alana had explained something about the pantone of the old year and that of the new year, and how it was apparently the “thing” to do among the Baltimore elite, but it had all gone right over Will’s head.

That was Hannibal borrowing Christmas in his own way, just as Will had done, before. At that point in time, he’d had no interest actually participating in the holiday. Christmas as a performance, just another well-crafted stitch in his person suit. 

The tree is a yearly, physical reminder of how much he’s changed during their time together. Along with the pleasure of knowing they’ve created their own Christmas, steeped in personal history, experience, and tradition, Will can’t help the swell of smug pride at the influence he’s had over Hannibal in this, as in all things.


End file.
